


With a Little Help From My Yuri

by youaremarvelous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Cooking, During Canon, Fluff, Gen, Hot Springs & Onsen, Post-Canon, Unrequited Crush, Viktor is highkey a mess, Yakov puts up with too much, Yurio cannot with the chopsticks, Yurio is a manga cliche and he doesn't know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: 5 times Yuuri helps Yurio out + the one time he (begrudgingly) returns the favor





	1. in Japan

Yuri is not scared of bugs.

 

He’s the two time consecutive Junior Grand Prix gold winner. For ten years, he walked three miles uphill in the snow to and from skating practice every day in Russia. He’s the (self-appointed, but he’s sure it will catch on as soon as he has his long awaited growth spurt) Ice Tiger of Russia, striking the hearts in the fear of Paparazzi, JJ Girls, and ornery skating coaches everywhere.

 

So yeah, scared of _bugs_? Maybe if they were 20 feet tall and equipped with nuclear-powered weaponry.

 

 _Maybe_.

 

The thing is, though, the bugs in Japan are not normal. Something he discovers the hard way when he’s trying to change out of his skating gear for the night. One second he’s thinking about dinner (steaming katsudon with a delicious side helping of Yuuri enviously crying over his own plate of broccoli), and the next he’s face to face with the huge, million-legged spider/centipede crossbreed of his nightmares.

 

He screams, sure, but _not_ because he’s scared of the thing.  

 

Mostly, he’s just impressed. Just like when the Yuri Angels scream for him when he effortlessly nails his jumps in competition, Yuri’s yell is one of admiration. The fact that this monstrous beast was able to make it all the way to his pitiful excuse for a room without detection is quite honestly inspiring and deserving of praise.

 

And so, he screamed.

 

Count on the Katsudon to completely misinterpret it, though.

 

He pops his head into the door, folded linens in his hands and forehead wrinkled with concern. “Yurio, are you okay? I thought I heard screaming.”

 

Yuri wants to tell him that his name is _not_ ‘Yurio’ and that he was merely screaming in appreciation of this phenomenal creature, but all he manages to do is gesture at the thing and squeak—stunned as he is by its majesty.

 

Yuuri frowns and steps into the room. “What’s wro—oh,” He says when he spots the thing on the wall. “It’s a gejigeji...uh,” he folds his arms, tilting his head while trying to remember the English name like it really matters when they’re so clearly being scoped out for weak points. “Oh,” he snaps his fingers, smiling, “house centipede.”

 

Yuri just stares at him, mouth gaping in disgust.

 

Yuuri cups his hand over the freakish monstrosity, trapping it in his palm. “Do you not have these in Russia?”

 

Yuri wants to tell him, ‘ _of course we don’t fucking have these in Russia_. _In Russia, bugs have a respectable amount of legs and don’t look like fucking genetically mutated rabid mustaches_.’ Instead, he crosses his arms and scowls. “Our bugs are a lot bigger.”

 

Yuuri shrugs. He certainly remembers the cockroaches in Sochi, though he didn’t remember the size being especially remarkable. “You want to hold it?” He asks, stretching his cupped hands towards Yuri.

 

Yuri shakes his head vigorously and takes a step back, nearly tripping over his futon in the process.

 

“Oh sorry,” Yuuri pulls his hands back. “I didn’t realize you were scare—”

 

“I’m _not_ scared.” Yuri insists quickly. “I’m just...allergic.”

 

Yuuri looks puzzled. “But I thought—?”

 

“No one asked you to think, _pig_.”

 

Yuuri nods slowly, smiling in the way that indicates he thinks he’s piecing things together. It’s disgusting, and Yuri would definitely call him out for it, if his hands weren’t currently weaponized by _at least_ three, maybe four, inches of squirmy, multi-legged monstrosity.  

 

“Who knew Japan runs the market on hybrid bugs and worthless figure skaters.”

 

Yuuri just shrugs and turns to free the bug outside.

 

“Don’t expect me to pay for staying here, not if you have those kinds of disgusting things crawling around!” Yuri yells after him for good measure.

 

“House centipede,” Yuuri corrects, as if Yuri’s stupid enough to forget so quickly. “And you weren’t paying, anyway.”

 

Yuri creases his brow into a deep scowl.

 

He’s eating an extra large katsudon tonight.

 

+

 

Something has been bothering Yuri for a while.

 

He stabs his chopsticks into a piece of pork cutlet and shoves it into his mouth, chewing aggressively. “What are you looking at, _pig_?” He asks around a mouthful of food. A piece of rice flies from his lips and lands on the table, and Yuuri blinks down at it before looking back to Yuri—eyes scrunched up and searching.

 

The Katsudon always watches him eat lately. At first, Yuri thought it was out of jealousy. His meals are always more satisfying looking than Yuuri’s plates of broccoli and beansprouts. But the incessant wide-eyes, winces, and glances from Yuri’s hands to his face seem to derive more from disbelief than the resentment he would prefer.

 

“Uh—” Yuuri fidgets, placing his chopsticks together and resting them across the top of his bowl. “I just...did you...want me to teach you how to use those?” He asks, nodding down at where Yuri has his own chopsticks clenched in his fist.

 

Yuri rolls his eyes and scoffs, holding the utensils like a dagger above his food and roughly ramming them into a new piece of meat. “This works fine,” he replies through a mouthful of pork.

 

Yuuri smiles lightly and scoots over to to the other side of the table. “But it has to be harder with the rice,” he says, settling behind Yuri’s elbow. “Just—” he reaches a hand out, pausing as if waiting for permission.

 

Yuri sighs loudly and slams his chopsticks down. “Fine, get it over with so I can eat my fucking food.”

 

Yuuri nods obediently and shifts forward, brushing shoulders with Yuri when he reaches for a chopstick. “Okay, so hold this one like a pencil,” he instructs, gently holding Yuri by the wrist and placing one chopstick in his grip.

 

Yuri swallows thickly and shifts his weight away from the older skater. It’s not that he’s embarrassed or anything stupid like that, he could eat with his hands for all he cares about table etiquette, but the pig’s skin is uncomfortably soft and he swears his face is so close he can feel his breath on his cheek which is honestly just revolting.

 

Yuuri continues teaching, completely oblivious to Yuri’s inner struggle. “And then hold this one—” he slides the second chopstick next to the first—”at the base of your thumb like this, resting against your ring finger.” Yuuri pulls his hands away, assessing Yuri’s form.

 

Yuri’s neck feels hot and his wrist tingles where it has been touched. Yuuri leans across the table to grab his own chopsticks and bowl. “From there, you just use your middle finger to open them,” Yuuri demonstrates, elbowing Yuri to follow suit when he just stares dumbly. “Good, and use your index finger to close them.” Yuri does so mechanically, nearly jumping from shock when Yuuri claps with a delighted, “great!”

 

“Now let’s try—” Yuuri begins, but he is cut off by their groggy Russian coach, newly awakened from his post practice nap.

 

“Mmm what’s going on in here?” Viktor’s voice breaks through the moment and Yuuri immediately turns towards him, his attention completely diverted.

 

The loss of the Katsudon’s focus feels like a balloon deflating in Yuri’s belly and he has the sudden overwhelming urge to hit Viktor. His hand clenches into a fist around his chopsticks, losing any semblance of proper form.

 

“I-I was just teaching Yurio how to hold chopsticks.” Yuuri scrambles to his feet. “Are you hungry? There’s food for you in the kitchen if you—”

 

“The little kitten still hasn’t gotten the hang of it?” Viktor teases, eyes half-lidded in a mocking smile.

 

That’s all the goading Yuri needs. He rears back and lobs the chopsticks at Vikor with all his strength. They meet their mark with ease—smacking him between the eyes with a satisfying slap. ‘ _At least these stupid things are more aerodynamic than forks_ ,’ he thinks with satisfaction.

 

“You’re one to talk, you geezer.” Yuri bites back. “You’ll probably be too arthritic to hold them in a year’s time. How long till you start getting the senior citizen discounts, again?”

 

Yuuri scrambles to pick up the lost chopsticks and Viktor laughs. “If I can’t hold them I’m sure Yuuri would feed me.”

 

Yuuri squeaks and drops the chopsticks again and Yuri silently seethes. “Hand them over, Katsudon,” he demands, holding out his palm expectantly.

 

Yuuri shakes his head and pulls the utensils to his chest. “These are dirty. I’ll grab you some new ones—” he turns to Viktor—”and heat up your dinner?”

 

Viktor smiles and nods gratefully and Yuuri flushes and hurries out of the common room to the kitchen. Yuri turns his attention to his food, commencing what he hopes to be a tortuous silent treatment, but it isn’t long before Yuuri returns. He hands Yuri a fork and Yuri doesn’t have it in him to argue. Mostly, he doesn’t want to give Viktor the satisfaction.

 

He begins eating again, roughly driving the prongs into the meat and stuffing the piece into his mouth. He chews loudly—little pieces of egg and rice sticking to his cheeks and chin—completely oblivious to Yuuri’s look of horror.

 

Yuuri sets down Viktor’s food, surreptitiously leaning towards him to half-whisper in his ear. “Y-you do use forks in Russia, right?”

 

Viktor shrugs and smiles before deftly lifting his chopsticks and beginning his meal.

 

+

 

If there’s one thing Yuri has an extremely high tolerance for, it’s the cold. He was born and raised in Russian, for god’s sake. His Mom would let him play outside as a toddler in nothing but a diaper and booties when there was still snow melting off the trees and ground in dirty piles, he’s been ice fishing with his grandfather an untold amount of times, and he once swam in the Borisov pond during early spring in nothing but his underwear on a dare. He spends a large chunk of his time skating on a giant flat of fucking _ice_.

 

The cold is nothing to him.

 

The heat, however.

 

That is something else entirely.

 

Yuri rubs the sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. Steam wafts around his face and shoulders and overheats his skin in bright red patches. He hates this hot spring. It’s overrun with old, wrinkly people, has stupid, overbearing rules, and worst of all, it’s so fucking _hot_.

 

“You okay, Yurio?” Yuuri asks him. He had been looking completely content, leaning forward with his head resting on his folded arms, but now his eyebrows are knitting together in a look of concern.

 

Truth be told, Yuri isn’t okay. The water has moved on from being comfortable to stifling and his stomach is churning with dinner. There’s no way he’s telling the Katsudon as much, though. “Mind your own business, _pig_.” He grunts through slightly trembling lips.

 

Yuuri sucks in his bottom lip in obvious distress. “Ah, well, y’know, Viktor wanted to go over our music after the bath, so we probably shouldn’t keep him waiting,” he says, standing.

 

Yuri would typically argue that he doesn’t care how long the stupid baldy is forced to wait. After all, he’d been waiting on the guy to choreograph a routine for him for years, just to have him turn tail and book it to fucking nowhere-land Japan once the time to follow through on his promise came. But he takes the opening for what it is.

 

“Tch. Whatever.” He stands quickly, eager to be free of the oppressive heat. The blood immediately rushes from his head—dispersing his vision into sparkling patches of black and white—and his knees wobble precariously below him.

 

He isn’t able to make out much of what happens next. He’s only left with sensations: the feeling of his body being hoisted beneath the armpits, something cold against his skin, and the soothing sound of a gentle voice while his hair is brushed back from his forehead.

 

When the tunneling darkness recedes he finds he is laid across a bench in the changing room, head pillowed on Yuuri’s lap with rolled up cold washcloths under his armpits and across his chest.

 

“Sorry,” Yuuri apologizes when Yuri blinks up at him. It’s such a stupid thing to do—to beg for forgiveness over something like this. Yuri isn’t sure why his heart flutters, but he assumes it must be from anger.

 

“What the fuck are you apologizing for?” Yuri asks. His tongue feels unwieldy in his mouth and he has trouble infusing his typical bite into the words.

 

Yuuri shakes his head and places the back of his hand on Yuri’s cheek. “I should’ve gotten you out sooner. Are you feeling better? Do you need some water?”

 

Yuri pushes himself up on his elbows instead of answering. He waits for a moment—making sure the world doesn’t start to tip again—before sitting up the rest of the way. “What I do is my choice.” He says, pointing a finger at Yuuri’s chest. “Got it?”

 

Yuuri holds his hands up defensively. His smile is small but understanding. “Okay, Yurio,” he concedes, standing to fetch Yuri a glass of water.  

  
Yuri huffs out a breath with a look of smug satisfaction and glances down at his still very nude body. “But you could’ve at least fucking covered me up, first!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how many times will I write characters passing out in the onsen? well, friend, do you know me well? 
> 
> you can find me [here](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I'm always game for chatting about yoi headcanons if you wanna stop by


	2. in Russia

“Yura, for the last time.”

 

Yuri turns away from the reddening face of his skating coach and tightens his grip around his backpack. “What? I told you I have a cold.”

 

Mila smirks and teases an elbow into Yuri’s side. “Even a little kitten like you wouldn’t make _that_ kind of noise when he coughs. 

 

Yuri bites down a growl and turns his back to the others. “Whatever. I-I’ve gotta go change.”

 

“You are not taking those kittens into the locker room!” Yakov yells after him.   

 

“You’re going senile, geezer!” Yuri bites back, quickening his pace when a chorus of soft mews erupt from his bag.  

 

He bumps into Viktor on the way, nearly dropping his backpack when he stumbles and a tiny paw reaches through the small space between the zippers. Viktor grabs his elbow and tries to right him with a word of apology, but Yuri yanks himself out of his grasp, accelerating his fast walk into a mildly panicked run until he reaches his destination.

 

Yuri breathes a sigh of relief when he enters the locker room. He slumps down on a bench and drops his backpack in his lap, carefully opening the zipper to reveal three tiny, rain-soaked kittens.

 

“Oh—” a voice sounds next to Yuri’s ear—“kittens!” He nearly sends his bag flying from the shock, but manages to hold tight out of pure instinct.

 

“ _Katsudon_ ,” he growls, crouching protectively over his backpack. He moves to zip it up again but Yuuri grabs him by the wrist, crouching at his side.

 

“Wait, don’t.” Yuuri reaches in, rubbing a small gray tabby behind the ear. Yuri can’t help but smile a little when she closes her eye with a deep, contented purr. “We should get them dried off.” Yuuri stands, moving to his locker.

 

Yuri doesn’t know much about the pig when it comes to pets, but his poodle print phone case and affinity with the baldy’s overgrown mutt are enough to clue him in that Yuuri is most likely a dog person. Yuri is naturally distrustful as he watches the man pull sweat rags (poodle printed ones, _seriously_?) from his gym bag.

 

His disgust must show on his face, because Yuuri hesitates slightly before handing one out to him. “They’re clean,” He assures, passing over the towel before reaching in the book bag and picking up the biggest kitten of the bunch—a chubby, green-eyed tuxedo.

 

“Where’d you find these guys, anyway?” Yuuri asks, yelping when the kitten hooks all four paws into the front of his shirt.

 

Yuri doesn’t have much of a choice but to trust him at this point, so he sighs wearily and plucks up the tabby. “In an alley near the rink. They were in a cardboard box, looks like they were abandoned.”

 

Yuuri hums and unfastens the tuxedo from his top, swaddling the squirmy thing with his towel. “So...” he hesitates, “what were you planning on doing with them?”

 

Yuri blushes a little and plops the tabby back in the bag, picking up it’s nearly solid gray sibling. “ _What_ , should I have just left them in the _rain_?”

 

Yuuri laughs a little and says something in Japanese. Yuri doesn’t know much about the language but he does hear the word ‘manga’ and can infer well enough that he’s being made fun of. He slaps down his towel on the bench and grits his teeth together, but the incoming rant has barely had time to form on his tongue before the door opens behind him with a bang.

 

“Yuri!” His coach bellows. The old man sounds angry. Yuri hasn’t even turned to look but he can already feel the heat radiating off of his undoubtedly beet red skin.

 

Yuri fixes his face in the sourest expression he can muster and turns around to face him. “What?” He spits, covertly plopping the gray kitten back in his bag.

 

“You’re late for practice,” Yakov tells him, spit bubbling in the corners of his mouth. “And I told you, no kittens in the rink! We can’t take in every abandoned animal in St. Petersburg, this is an ice rink not an animal shelter!”

 

Yuri is prepared to tell him off, but to his complete and utter horror, he feels his throat constrict and his eyes grow hot with tears.  

 

“I-it’s okay,” Yuuri settles an awkward hand on Yuri’s shoulder. He’s practically shaking—the Japanese pig _still_ hasn’t grown accustomed to the crusty old windbag that is Yakov and the sight of this obvious weakness turns Yuri’s stomach. “Vitya and I...we can keep them at our place until we can find homes.”

 

Yuri’s has his chin turned down, his face affixed in a petulant scowl. He doesn’t see the silent conversation flying over his head, but he can feel it in the soft squeeze of Yuuri’s grip.

 

“Of course, Yuuri and I would be happy to take them in,” Viktor’s voice sounds from behind Yakov. “Surely it’s not a problem if they stay in the locker room for the duration of my Yuuri’s practice—” he places a hand on the old coach’s shoulder—”right, Yakov?”

 

Viktor says it in that way of his that leaves no room for argument, even against the impenetrable force that is their hardened coach. The tone would normally irritate Yuri but today he finds he is grudgingly grateful for it.

 

Yakov grits his teeth and moves to run a hand through his hair, but his fingers are abruptly stopped by his hat. He clenches his hand instead and drops the fist by his side. “Fine,” he growls out his agreement before pointing a finger at Yuri. “But no more bringing strays into the rink. You hear me, Yura? Or they’re going right back on the street.”   

 

Yuri huffs and jerks his head to the lockers.

 

“And you two,” Yakov turns his attention to Yuuri and then Viktor. “Don’t think you can throw your weight around all the time. You are students here and I won’t have it!”

 

Yuuri nods frantically. Viktor only smiles.

 

Yakov throw his hands in the air in frustration and storms out of the locker room, grumbling Russian profanities under his breath.

 

Viktor laughs and walks over to scoop a kitten out of Yuri’s bag. “A little kitten can’t help but rescue his own, huh?”

 

Yuri makes sure to laugh raucously and obnoxiously when the kitten pulls back with a hiss and swipes Viktor across the face.

 

+

 

“I’m not wearing that.”

 

Yuuri sighs and drops the collar of the frilly apron over Yuri’s head, anyway. “It’s the only spare we have. What’s the problem with it?”

 

Yuri stares down at the pink rhinestone monogrammed ‘V’ and scowls. “Where do I even start?”

 

“It’s just you and me here, does it really matter?” Yuuri laughs and pulls a bag of flour from the cabinet. “So katsudon pirozhki,” he plants his hands on his hips and tilts his head. “How far did you get last time?”

 

Yuri shrugs and leans his elbows on the counter. “I gave up after I burned the rice.”

 

“You—” Yuuri tries to hide a peal of laughter in his shoulder and ends up snorting loudly. “W-well that’s okay,” he holds both hands up to placate Yuri. “When is your grandpa’s birthday again?”

 

Yuri flicks a measuring cup, watching it spin. “Tomorrow.”

 

Yuuri chews on his lower lip and nods. “Okay, well, as long as we get these done by the afternoon, we should be able to overnight the package to get there in time.”

 

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Yuri knocks the salt shaker over and sends little white pellets scattering across the countertop.

 

Yuuri shrugs and pours some flour in a large mixing bowl. “More or less.” He reaches for a saucepan of milky liquid and nods at Yuri to join him. “Can you mix this in while I grab the yeast?”

 

Yuri straightens and moves to take the pan. Yuuri only turns his back for a second, but when he whirls back around—yeast mixture in hand—Yuri is dumping the entire pan into the flour, splattering his hair and apron with watery white goop.

 

“Ah,” Yuuri steps over and takes both containers from Yuri. “Th-that’s okay, why don’t you go tie your hair back and I’ll work on kneading the dough.”

 

Yuri rolls his eyes and turns to sit on a bar stool, combing the tangles out of his hair while watching as the Katsudon deftly flops the dough over and kneads his knuckles into it, adding flour as he goes. Yuri tries very hard not be impressed.

 

He pulls his hair back into an elastic. “Do you cook a lot?”

 

Yuuri shrugs and places a cloth over the bowl, setting it to the side to rise. “I used to help out Okaasan and Mari-neesan at the inn.”

 

Yuri hums and starts picking flour out from beneath his nails. “I never learned. My Mom doesn’t cook, so...”

 

Yuuri blinks hard and looks down at his flour-stained hands. “Why don’t you make the tonkatsu, Yurio?”

 

Yuri sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “You just don’t want to get near the hot oil.” He accuses, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. “You’re more experienced, anyway.”

 

Yuuri turns to take the eggs out of the fridge. “So you’ll learn. It’s your gift, isn’t it?”

 

Yuri gnaws on the inside of his cheek and begrudgingly rises, walking around to the other side of the counter.

 

Things go mostly okay. Yuri doesn’t have the skill years of kitchen work has earned Yuuri, but he’s nowhere near as hopeless as Viktor. In the end, they have a couple small oil burns, two lost eggs, and a beautiful rack of golden flaky pirozhki to show for their efforts.   

 

“I think they’re cool enough now,” Yuuri lifts one of the pastries and hands it to Yuri to taste test. “How is it?” The pig asks as if Yuri’s flushed cheeks don’t reveal enough.

 

“It’s fine,” he huffs. He stuffs nearly half the thing in his mouth and sends crumbs spraying down his chin and Viktor’s apron. “I _guess_.”

 

+

 

Yuri is used to the attention being semi-famous can garner. He’s seen the fan content the Yuri Angels produce—hell, he’s tagged in their social media posts on a regular basis. Most of it is innocent: Microsoft Paint images of his poorly-cropped face surrounded by kittens and hearts and ice skates, some of it is fucking disgusting (he stumbled across a “jjurio” post for the first time a few months ago—there isn’t enough bleach in the world to wipe the mental image from his brain), and, of course, some of it is inflammatory.  

 

It’s all par for the course of being in the public eye, and Yuri doesn’t particularly care. Why should he value the opinion of people who probably haven’t stepped on an ice rink in their life and couldn’t keep up with him on a half mile light jog?

 

It’s all white noise. He does what he does, they do what they do. If they support him, great. If not, unless they’re a judge or his coach (and sometimes not even him), he doesn’t care.

 

So for the life of him he can’t get why Yuuri is being a sniveling crybaby over one tiny article in a completely insignificant gossip rag.

 

One second they’re standing in line at the grocers, waiting to buy some ribbon for his grandpa’s birthday present, the next Yuuri’s eyes are locked on block yellow letters on the magazine rack: “ **Can Viktor Nikiforov Do Better?** ” Complete with a front cover picture of the two idiots’ now infamous kiss at the Cup of China.

 

Yuuri reaches for the magazine before Yuri has even processed what is happening. He manages to rip it away, but not before they both see one of the bolded article points: “ **average looks aside, Katsuki’s skating career is dismal at best**.”

 

“Fucking trash,” Yuri grumbles, because what the fuck do they know about it, and smacks the magazine back in place—wrinkling half the cover in the process. He spares a glance up at Yuuri and notes the far away look in his eyes with irritation. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he warns.

 

Yuuri nods absently and makes their purchase. Yuri is writing angry ‘letter to the editors’ in his head as he follows on the older skater’s heels. The walk back to the apartment is silent, which is not entirely uncommon. Yuuri doesn’t feel the need to fill every second with pointless prattle. It’s one of the reasons Yuri doesn’t mind spending time with him.

 

This feels different, though. The silence is heavy—brooding, and through the glare on his glasses lenses, Yuuri looks like he just found out his dog died again.

 

Words weigh on Yuri’s tongue. Yuuri’s career may not look great on paper, but his skating transcends it. His expression—his skill—isn’t quantifiable by his notoriously low scores. The Katsudon chokes under pressure, it’s what he does, but Yuri knows there’s something to the pig’s skating he’ll never attain. He sees it often during practice: something ineffable in the way he moves—in the way the music moves through him. Yuri admires him and despises him for it in equal measure.

 

It’s not something he can really say, though. Even when Yuuri lets them both into the apartment without a word and sits zombie-like at the kitchen table with a pair of scissors. Yuri has just sucked in a breath to break the silence when Yuuri runs the blade along a cropped length of marigold yellow ribbon. A curl forms and Yuuri jumps and drops the scissors, blinking owlishly down at his hand.  

 

Yuri grabs at his wrist—confused at what has happened—until a ruby bead of blood forms on the pig’s index finger and drips to the table below.

 

Yuri hisses out curses in Russian and runs for a paper towel to wrap around Yuuri’s finger. That seems to snap the Katsudon out of it. He mumbles out an apology and stands, cupping a hand under the wounded finger as he makes his way to the kitchen.

 

Yuri picks up the blood spotted ribbon and twirls it between his fingers—glancing from it to the older skater. He is standing over the sink, running his finger under the tap, shoulders hunched and face strained.

 

Yuuri doesn’t cry but this is almost worse. He seems resigned, like he’s been waiting for the world to call him out and validate all the negative things he’s been thinking about himself.

 

It burns Yuri deep down.

 

He refuses to spout uncharacteristic platitudes. He will not act like Viktor and handle this man with kid gloves by patting his back and telling him he’s a wonderful skater and ‘ _what do awards mean anyway_ ?’ Hell will freeze over, melt, and freeze again before he ever even _thinks_ about telling Yuuri that when the early evening sun glows on his face, his eyes look like two healthy dollops of the sweetest, sparkling syrup, that when he smiles—like genuinely smiles with teeth and closed eyes and flushed cheeks—even the most hardened heart would find itself lurching.

 

He wouldn’t admit those things under threat of torture, he sure as _fuck_ isn’t going to say them now. But he will say something else he knows to be the truth.

 

“Viktor doesn’t deserve _you_.”  

 

Yuuri sighs and turns off the tap. “Yurio—” He begins, but Yuri slaps a hand on the table and cuts him off.

 

“He didn’t own cutlery before you moved here.”

 

Yuuri knits his eyebrows and opens his mouth to speak.

 

“He can’t cook for shit,” Yuri continues. “He doesn’t even know how to make eggs. _Eggs_.”

 

Yuuri huffs out a light laugh and Yuri’s eyes gleam. He is excited now, spurred by the promise of Yuuri’s smile.

 

“He microwaved a metal thermos and the whole apartment building had to be evacuated. Did you know that?”

 

Yuuri shakes his head slowly, slightly stunned.

 

“He once contracted scurvy during the off season because he subsisted on porridge and ramen noodles for a month,” Yuri adds, gaining momentum. “He dropped his phone in the toilet when he was drunk and tried to dry it off in the oven. I have a spare key to his place because he locked himself out and tried to _scale the side of the building_ to get back in through his bedroom window. An old hag called an exorcist because of the noises coming out of his flat early in the morning. It was just him singing in the shower. He once cried for twenty minutes until Yakov agreed to go to his apartment and plunge his toilet.”

 

Yuuri breaks at that, hiding an uncontrollable giggle into his knuckles.

 

“So he’s not so great, okay?”

 

Yuuri nods and wipes at a tear. “I know, _I know_.” He sighs and lowers himself back to the kitchen table. He doesn’t say that it’s still hard being compared to him, but the subtext is there in the curve of his resigned smile.

 

Yuri doesn’t berate him for it, though the impulse is there. “ _You_ can do better,” he says. It’s the truth, if only half of it.

 

Yuuri shakes his head and picks up the scissors again, unfurling a new length of ribbon. “But I love him.”

 

Yuri groans and leans back in his chair, balancing precariously on two legs. “Well considering how fucking disgusting you two are during practice, I’d say the feeling is mutual.”

 

Yuuri laughs lightly and threads the ribbon horizontally over the package.

 

“Seriously, skating does not require that much pda. And don’t think I don’t see you two making out behind the boards like you’re fucking high schoolers. It’s a miracle I’m even able to stomach my lunch most days.”

 

Yuuri ties off the ribbon in a bow and starts running a new length vertically. “I noticed you’re getting better with chopsticks.”

 

Yuri flushes a little and lets his weight fall back forward on all four chair legs. “Well, they were a gift from Yuuko, so—” he trails off, face pinched into a forced back smile.

 

Yuuri doesn’t reply and Yuri is thankful for it. He watches Yuuri work for a while before tucking his hair behind his ear and standing to raid the kitchen. There is a pastry box settled next to the fruit bowl and Yuri opens it to find an assortment of pastila. He pops one in his mouth and pulls out a plate. “You want a snack?”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Yuuri answers distractedly, sticking out his tongue as he carefully ties the ribbons into a neat bow.  

 

Yuri plops some of the treats onto the plate—adding a few mandarins from the fruit bowl for good measure—before returning to the table.

 

Yuuri puts down his scissors when Yuri sits, smiling over at him when he picks up a pale pink pastila and takes a bite. “Thanks, Yurio.” He says, guarding his chewing mouth behind his palm. He still looks vaguely tense, but his eyes have softened and his posture seems more relaxed.

 

Yuri doesn’t even notice the knot of tension in his stomach until it releases. “Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, reaching for another sweet. He has a feeling the warm, buzzing in his brain is more than just the beginnings of a sugar high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yurio and Viktor co-wrote an angry letter to the editor the next day during Yuuri's practice. Yurio wanted to mail them some of his cat's poop but Viktor talked him out of it. 
> 
> happy valentine's day, y'all!
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/)


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